For the best
by Ailendolin
Summary: Spoilers for Season 3. Post-finale. Steve was a lot of things. Okay wasn't one of them.
1. Steve

**Disclaimer: I neither Stranger Things nor its characters and make no money with this story.**

**For the best**

**Chapter 1: Steve**

The fight was over – for now, at least. Steve wasn't stupid enough to think it was over for good. This was not his first rodeo, after all. He knew those things would come back to haunt them one day, in one form or another. They always did and he'd resigned himself to that fact the moment this nightmare began for the second time with Dustin's adopted demodog. Danger nowadays, Steve had learned, lurked everywhere. In the woods, on the streets – even under shopping malls. He should have known better, should have been prepared for the next disaster. He should have expected this.

But he hadn't. He had been blindsided by it all until it was too late and they were once more in too deep in the blink of an eye. He'd paid the prize for that. Hopper had, too, and Billy, and so many more. It made Steve's head hurt just to think about it – all that loss, all that death. So many lives irreversibly changed. It was almost overwhelming to try to comprehend the magnitude of it all and there was a tightness in Steve's chest that made it hard to breathe when he thought about all those people.

At least the kids were safe. They hadn't been taken, hadn't been seriously hurt and neither the Mindflayer nor the Russians had gotten to them. Steve closed his eyes and sighed, silently thanking whatever deity was out there for looking out for them. They had been so unbelievably lucky. He didn't quite know what Mike, Lucas, Max and El had been up to, but he was painfully aware of the danger Dustin and Erica had been in. The elevator was what first came to mind. They could have died in that cabin and Steve could feel the panic he'd had during the free-fall even now in his very bones, hours later. He remembered realizing that they were all going to die and he'd be responsible for the death of two kids and the one friend he had somehow managed to make since all the shit went down in the Byers' house for the first time – and that, knowing it was his fault his friends would die, had been so much worse than the idea of his own impending death.

His panic in the elevator, though, was nothing compared to the frenzied fear Steve had experienced when the Russians had discovered hopelessly outnumbered them. Without thinking he'd thrown himself against the door to buy the others a few precious seconds of time which he knew could mean the difference between life and death. When Robin came to his aid Steve had been simultaneously dismayed and so relieved to have her by his side. He hated himself a little bit for the latter. But then Dustin hadn't wanted to leave and for one horrible moment Steve thought it would all be in vain, they would all be captured and the kids would be hurt because of him, because he was an awful friend and couldn't keep them safe.

He would have never forgiven himself if Dustin and Erica had been tortured like he was. It was bad enough he had ratted out Dustin to the Russians. Drug or no drug, Dustin was right: Steve should have resisted more. He should have just kept his mouth shut, no matter what they did to him. Dustin was like a little brother to him, like family, and Steve should have protected him like he was supposed to. He'd failed in that regard and that hurt more than any punch the Russians had thrown at him.

Not that those punches hadn't hurt as well. They had. Fiercely. One of his eyes was almost swollen shut and his head hurt nearly as badly as when Billy had beaten him up during the last supernatural crisis. The paramedics had told him he'd been lucky, though: no concussion, no broken bones – no trip to the hospital for him. Steve hadn't mentioned that he'd been tortured and drugged, or how he still felt nauseous and dizzy whenever he moved too fast. He hadn't told them about the punches to his stomach, the kicks, the pain blooming in his chest every time he took a breath. And he hadn't said a word about how scared he had been, so scared his hands wouldn't stop shaking even now.

Instead he'd gone home. He'd stayed long enough to make sure the kids were taken care of and wouldn't be alone and then he'd left as quietly as possible without making a fuss. They all had enough to worry about without him in the picture. All he needed was a glass of water, some pain meds and a couple of hours of sleep and he'd be okay. At least that was what he told himself.

His apartment was dark and eerily quiet when he came home. It wasn't much: one room that served as both living room and bedroom, a small niche which housed an even smaller kitchen, and a bathroom that included a moldy shower, sink and toilet. He'd been living in this dump for a few months now, ever since his parents threw him out and cut him off for choosing his own path in life instead of going to college. Their final argument had been loud and earth-shattering, and the slamming of the door had been deafening in its finality. Steve still remembered how lost he'd felt that day. How alone. For the first time in his life he hadn't known what to do, how to move forward.

The next week was a blur of hazy memories. He'd slept in his car – though sleeping was a generous term. He would park on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, right on the edge of the forest in which _things_ and monsters lurked, and spent the night trying not to fall apart. Constantly on edge, waking up from every weird noise he wasn't used to, his nightmares had a field day. They turned from bad to vicious, from sporadic to frequent, and left him shaking like a leaf and panting for breath every night. It didn't help that he had begun skipping meals as well. Trying to stretch what little money he still had he'd figured one or two small meals a day were enough to get him by. After a few days of keeping this up he began to get dizzy from both lack of food and lack of sleep and started tripping over his own two feet.

After a little more than a week of that his body crashed. He'd been at the Byers', watching the kids play that weird game he still didn't understand no matter how often Dustin tried to explain it to him when reality caught up with him. All he'd wanted to do was get some orange juice from the fridge – not for himself but for the kids. He'd bent down to grab the bottle and the last thing he remembered were the black spots dancing in his vision before his eyes rolled back into his head and he hit the floor, hard.

When he woke up, he was lying on the couch and the worried face of Joyce Byers was staring down at him. "Steve? Hey, it's okay. Are you all right?"

Steve didn't know whether it was her kind face, her concerned eyes or the caring tone of her voice that made him break down. Maybe it was because she was the first person to ask him how he was since his parents threw him out, the first one to notice something was wrong, the first one to genuinely care, but in the end it didn't matter. The words spilled out of him without warning and he told her everything: his struggles in school because the words on the pages just made no sense to him, his decision not to go to college (because who would accept someone who can't even read properly?), the subsequent fight with his parents, and finally how he'd been living in his car for the last few days and barely managed to get by. By the end of it all his face had been red with shame and he was unable to meet Mrs. Byers eyes, afraid of judgement. Afraid of being laughed at and turned away.

He wasn't, though. Instead of making him leave Mrs. Byers breathed out a quiet, "Oh, Steve," and pulled him into her arms. Steve had been so surprised by this that for a moment he froze. He couldn't even remember the last time his parents had given him a hug and with that thought tugging at his heart he melted into Mrs. Byers embrace, unable to resist this wonderful feeling of safety and love she so graciously provided.

Later, much later when his breaths didn't come out in tiny panicky gasps anymore, she had told him he could stay for as long as he needed to. And then over the next days and weeks she'd helped him find a place to live, and a job that payed the rent and Steve had never been more grateful to anyone in his entire life than he was to Joyce Byers for her unconditional help and support when he'd hit rock bottom.

Now, staring into the emptiness of his apartment, Steve wished he had never left her little house in the woods. In the short time he had stayed there it had become more of a home to him than his parents' house had ever been. It might have been small and not much to look at, but it was filled with so much warmth and affection despite the horrors that had happened in those four walls. He'd felt safe there, knowing someone was sleeping just a room away and willing to come to his side at the first signs of distress. He'd never had that at his parents' house and he didn't have that here in his apartment – no company, no help, and no one who would hold his hand when the pain and nightmares became too much.

Steve swallowed and flicked on the lonely light in the bathroom. It was harsh, blinding him for a moment. Carefully, he wrapped his shaking fingers around the hem of his work uniform and began to pull it upwards. He gritted his teeth against the pain as bruised ribs chafed against each other with every movement and his stomach muscles screamed in protest. A sideway glance in the mirror showed him a colorful array of bruises that he knew would hurt even worse tomorrow.

He quickly looked away.

It took an excruciating amount of time until he'd peeled his uniform off. For a moment Steve stood there shivering in the bright, unforgiving light. Then he gathered up what little courage he had left and stepped into the shower. He knew from experience that this would hurt. Water on open wounds wasn't fun at all but the need to wash away the blood and grime from his skin was stronger than his fear of pain. Steeling himself, he turned on the water.

He bit his lip bloody in an attempt to keep quiet.

By the time he was finished his legs were shaking from exhaustion. Quickly, he brushed his teeth, eager to get the taste of drug and vomit out of his mouth, before he dragged himself to his bedroom. He pulled on some briefs and the loosest pair of sweatpants he owned. Not keen on aggravating the bruises littering his chest once more, he forewent a shirt and stumbled into his kitchen for some water and pain meds. He took the last two pills he had and downed them in one go.

His hands were still shaking.

Steve balled them into fists and walked back to his bed. Gingerly, he lowered himself onto the mattress and just sat there for a moment, breathing against the pain, before he slowly lay down. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, feeling cold even though it was July. The shivering didn't stop and in some distant part of his mind he realized that might be because he was going into shock. The adrenaline was wearing off, the drug was out of his system and the physical and mental horrors of the past few hours were finally catching up with him.

Steve let out a stuttering breath. Shadows danced across his wall, looking too much like multi-legged creatures for his comfort. He turned away from them and curled up beneath his blanket, making himself as small as possible. His heart was beating in a frantic rhythm even though there was no danger anymore, skipping a beat or two every now and then. Steve wanted to crawl out of his skin. Instead he squeezed his eyes shut tightly and dug his fingernails into his arms to ground himself somehow. It helped, a little.

But it wasn't enough.

A noise from outside made him flinch and sent his heart back on its marathon race just when it had started to calm down. Steve whimpered and curled up tighter, pressing his hands against his ears. He wanted this all to stop. He wanted things to go back to normal – not the old normal when he was still a jerk with asshole friends. No, he wanted to go back to the new normal: this semi-peaceful existence between disasters when his biggest problem was figuring out how to sneak the kids into the cinema without losing his job in the process. He wanted to be able to sleep again and not look over his shoulder every five seconds, thinking something was following him.

Steve knew, though, that there was no going back – just as much as he knew that going forward this time would be even more difficult than it had been after the demodogs. It wasn't just monsters he had to be afraid of now. How was he supposed to ever trust someone, a stranger, anyone again? How could he possibly protect Dustin and the others when danger lurked literally everywhere and in any form?

Steve swallowed hard against the bile in his throat. Maybe it would be better if he made himself scarce from now on. He clearly wasn't fit to look after children, much less protect them. The kids often joked about his inability to win a fight but in the end, he knew they spoke the truth. He was practically useless in a fight, unable to hold his own. That didn't stop him from trying, though. He'd do anything to help these kids. As long as they were safe nothing else mattered.

Only this time, it was his fault they weren't safe in the first place. He'd allowed Dustin and Erica to do something dangerous and it had almost ended with them both captured and tortured. Who knew what the Russians would have done to them if the two of them hadn't escaped? Steve couldn't let that happen again. He was a danger to these kids, too young to make responsible decisions. They'd trusted him and he'd screwed up. He was a bad influence and today had more than proven they would be safer and better off without him there, no matter how much it pained him to admit it. He'd grown fond of them all, especially Dustin. He was like the little brother Steve never had and he'd miss him fiercely. But there was no other way. He had to leave. Dustin didn't really need him, not as much as Steve needed Dustin, anyway. Dustin would be fine and move on, eventually. He had other friends.

Steve had … well, Steve had Robin. Maybe. He wouldn't blame her if she never wanted to have anything to do with him again after he dragged her into this whole mess. She deserved so much better than him and one day, inevitably, she would realize that. People always did. And then they left.

This time Steve would them all the trouble and stay away. There were shitty places like Hawkins all over the country where a loser like him could find a job no one else wanted to do. He would leave as soon as possible, when every little movement no longer hurt and he could breathe again without feeling like someone was stabbing him with a knife in the chest. It would take a few days but then he'd be out of everyone's hair and they would all be a little bit safer.

His eyes burned at the thought of being all alone again but his mind was made up. He had been selfish for way too long already. It was time to put the others first. The kids could no longer depend on him to keep them safe. They never should have in the first place and Steve would be damned if he put them in any more danger than they were already in just because he was lonely and craved their company.

_No_, he thought and his heart beat painfully against his ribcage as if to protest. _I'll go and they'll be safe. It's for the best._

Exhaustion finally caught up with him and he fell into an uneasy sleep where evil Russian doctors lurked in a vast black void and Dustin's screams for help echoed in the nothingness.


	2. Joyce

**Chapter 2: Joyce**

The first time Joyce thought about Steve after the shopping mall disaster was two days later. The kids were all at her house, drawn together by their shared experiences, trauma and the need to make sure the others were all right. Joyce didn't mind. Her home, as long as it still was hers, would always be open for them; a safe haven despite everything that had happened in and around it in the last few years.

It was Dustin who mentioned Steve at the end of a long conversation which brought everyone up to date. "Robin called me this morning. Her parents won't let her out of their sight at the moment but she's fine." He paused, looking worried. "Has anyone heard from Steve?"

The others all shook their heads.

"They probably sent him to the hospital," Max said in a quiet voice. "His face looked awful."

Joyce, standing in the kitchen preparing dinner, frowned. She thought back to the mall, to Steve's bloody, swollen eye and the cut on his lip. Had that been the extent of his injuries or had his uniform hidden more beneath all that white and blue cloth? Had he even allowed the paramedics to check him over and send him to the hospital? Had he been safe?

With a jolt she realized she didn't know. She had been so preoccupied with Will, with Hopper's death (a lump formed in her throat every time her thoughts strayed to those last precious moments underground) and later with El's fragile state of mind and Jonathan's bruise-mottled back that she hadn't checked if the other kids had been all right. And high school graduate or not – for Joyce, that meant Steve as well.

Guilt pooled in her stomach. She had simply taken her own children (and El, poor El who had already lost so much in her young life and didn't seem to be able to catch a break) and gone home that night, spending the next day between sleeping and crying and muttering reassurances that were meaningless because Hopper was dead and no force on Heaven or Earth or in the Upside Down could bring him back to them. There just hadn't been any room for worrying about anything else, or any_one _else, during those first few hours of grief and pain. Joyce knew she was only human and could only do so much but it still made her feel ashamed that she hadn't made sure the other kids were as well as they could possibly be after what they went through (_again_, she reminded herself).

She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and stepped into the living room. The kids were sitting in a circle on the floor, huddled closer together than they normally would, and her gaze moved over the young faces. There were a few minor scrapes and bruises on them but nothing major. Joyce sighed in relief. Everyone looked tired and drawn but mostly unharmed. At least physically.

Six heads swiveled around to face her. "Is dinner ready, Mom?"

Joyce smiled. "In a moment. I just wanted to make sure you were all right in here."

Will smiled back at her. It made her heart swell with love. "We are. Promise."

The timer went off before Joyce could ask about Steve. With a barely concealed swear she hurried back into the kitchen, and between the potatoes in her oven beginning to look more black than golden, the vegetables in the pan following their example and a bunch of hungry kids talking all over each other in their excitement, all thoughts of Steve fled her mind for the rest of the evening.

It was Dustin, again, who reminded her that Steve was still unaccounted for a day later. In the late afternoon he knocked on her front door, looking worried and out of breath. His bike was thrown carelessly onto her lawn.

"Will and El are over at Mike's," Joyce told him, wondering why he was here and not with them.

"I know," Dustin said. "They don't believe something's wrong but I do and … and I didn't know where else to go. It's about Steve."

The words _something's wrong_ sent all the alarm bells in Joyce's head ringing and she felt dread settle like a heavy stone in her stomach when she realized she'd never asked the kids about Steve the night before and what had happened to him at the mall. She could kick herself for becoming distracted but there was nothing she could do about it now, so she ushered Dustin inside and got him a glass of orange juice while he caught his breath. "What's wrong with Steve?"

"That's just it! I don't know!" Dustin exclaimed, clearly upset. "I haven't seen him since the mall and I thought he was at the hospital but when I went there earlier to visit him, they told me he wasn't there."

Joyce frowned. "Maybe he already left?"

Dustin shook his head. "He was never admitted. So I thought he went home but his dad told me he's not there either. He … he said some … things about Steve. Called him names." Dustin's frightened eyes met hers. "I think something's wrong, Mrs. Byers. I think something happened to Steve and no one knows where he is."

"Breathe, Dustin. I'm sure he's fine," Joyce tried to reassure him even though her gut feeling told her something else.

Dustin wasn't having it. "Then why isn't he home? He was _hurt_, Mrs. Byers! Like, really badly hurt. He should be at home, resting."

Joyce bit her lip. Last year when Steve had collapsed in her kitchen and told her about the fight with his parents she had promised him she wouldn't tell the kids.

"They have enough on their plates already," he had mumbled. "They don't need to worry about my shit on top of everything else."

So Joyce hadn't said a word. When the kids asked why Steve was staying with her she told them that the pipes in his house had broken and he couldn't stay there until the repairs were finished. They accepted the lie easily. She had felt bad for using their trust in her against them but Steve had been adamant that they don't find out.

And they never did. Things went back to normal and when Steve found an apartment Joyce was the only one there to help him move. Not that he had a lot of things. All his belongings fit into one pitiful suitcase that made Joyce's heart ache. Steve had smiled at her reassuringly, though, after she had helped him settle in and was about to leave.

"Don't worry, I'll be all right," he'd told her. And then, "Thank you, Mrs. Byers. For everything. I … I don't know what I would've done without you, to be honest."

He'd looked so embarrassed in that moment that Joyce had reached out and pulled him close. When he buried his head in her shoulder she'd felt like crying. He wasn't her son but he might as well have been. She would miss him terribly and wanted nothing more than to take him back home with her. But he wanted to leave, no matter how often she had told him he could stay, and Joyce knew he was old enough to make his own decisions. It still hurt to let him go, though.

"Remember," she'd said when she pulled back, "my door is always open, all right?"

Steve had nodded but now Joyce wondered if he had truly heard and understood her that day. From the time they spent living together she knew that Steve was always trying to help others but had a hard time accepting help and comfort for himself. She didn't know if his father taught him that (Lonnie would always tell the boys to toughen up and that crying was for girls, and Steve's father didn't seem much better than Lonnie) or if he was so used to being alone that he didn't know how to deal with problems other than on his own, but in the short few weeks he had stayed with her Joyce had tried her best to tell him that it was okay not to be strong all the time.

She should have never let him go.

Taking a deep breath, Joyce turned to Dustin, and broke her promise to Steve. "Remember last year, when Steve was staying here?"

Dustin furrowed his brow. "When the piping in his house was broken?"

Joyce grimaced. "Yeah. Look, the piping wasn't really broken," she admitted. "Steve's parents had kicked him out. That's why he was living here for a while."

Dustin's eyes widened. "His parents … why? Why would they do that?"

"Because Steve didn't get into any colleges, and apparently that's enough for the Harringtons to disown their son. He wasn't living up to their standards," she almost spat in disgust. "They threw him out with nothing but the clothes on his back and what little money he had in his pockets. He slept in his car for days, living on power bars of all things."

"Is … is that why he fainted in the kitchen that one time?" Dustin asked in a quiet, subdued voice.

Joyce nodded. "Yeah. He wasn't doing too good back then." She sighed. "I'm sorry we lied to you but Steve … he didn't want you to worry."

"Well, Steve's an idiot so you shouldn't listen to him," Dustin declared in such a matter-of-fact voice that Joyce couldn't help but smile.

"I'm beginning to see that," she said.

Dustin smiled faintly in return before his face turned serious once more. "I do, though, you know? Worry about him, I mean. Doesn't matter whether he wants me to or not. I'll worry anyway."

"Because you're a good friend," Joyce said.

The look on Dustin's face was heartbreaking. "Am I? It's been three days since the mall and … and I think he's been all alone all this time and he shouldn't be, Mrs. Byers. Not after what they did to him."

A thousand scenarios went though Joyce's head at Dustin's words and not one of them was good. She felt her chest constrict with apprehension, as if someone's hand was squeezing her ribs so tightly it hurt. She almost didn't want to know what Dustin meant. Almost. "Who exactly did what to him?"

"The Russians!" Dustin said at once. "They captured him and Robin – and Robin, she said they didn't do much to her but she told me they took Steve away and he was gone a long time and all beaten up and unconscious when they brought him back. She thinks they tortured him and … and I don't know what that means exactly but it's obviously not _good_ and they were both_ drugged_ afterwards and he's … he's not okay, Mrs. Byers. No matter what he says, he can't be okay and he shouldn't be alone."

Tortured.

Drugged.

The words echoed in Joyce's mind and made her skin crawl. Steve Harrington was just a teenager. He shouldn't have to go through something like that. _Hell_, she thought, _none of them should._ And she had been too busy with everything else to even spare him a thought, telling herself he would come to her if he needed help. But would he? He hadn't gone to anyone after the fight with his parents, after all, and he would probably still be sleeping in his car if he hadn't fainted in her kitchen that day. That thought made her want to cry. Did he even have anyone he could confide in? She knew he hadn't talked to her or Hopper. She also knew he didn't want to worry the kids, so they were out of the question, too. That only left Jonathan and Nancy and considering their complicated history Joyce was pretty sure Steve would rather die than talk to them.

_Shit,_ Joyce thought. She'd really screwed up this time.

Making a decision, she stood up and reached for her car keys. "Come on, let's go."

"You know where he lives?" Dustin asked, his eyes lighting up in hope as he scrambled off the couch.

Joyce nodded. "Who do you think helped him find an apartment?"

The drive wasn't actually that long but it felt like hours until they pulled up in front of Steve's apartment building. Dustin wrinkled his nose when he saw the rundown structure. "That's a far cry from where he used to live," he observed quietly.

"It's the best he could afford with his salary," Joyce said, heart heavy as they walked up the stairs. "He could have stayed with us but …"

"He didn't want to be a bother," Dustin finished for her. "Yeah, I know. It's what he always tells my mom when she invites him to stay for dinner."

They reached Steve's door and Joyce knocked once, twice. "Steve? Are you there?" When there was no answer, Joyce tried again. "Steve? It's Joyce and Dustin. We just want to make sure you're all right."

A faint, "No," was the answer they got.

Joyce shared a worried look with Dustin before Dustin turned back to the door and rapped his knuckles against it in quick succession. "Steve!" he shouted. "If you don't open this door right now we're coming in. We'll break it down if we must. You know me, Steve. I'll do it." A little quieter he said to Joyce. "Please tell me you have a key."

Despite the situation Joyce chuckled. She fished Steve's spare key out of her pocket and held it up triumphantly. "I do."

From within the apartment they heard a broken and hoarse, "Stay away! Please!"

Joyce took that as their cue to go in.

The apartment was dark and the air seemed to stand still. Cautiously, Joyce moved towards Steve's living space. What she saw when she turned on the light broke her heart.

Steve was sitting on the ground beneath the window with his hands buried in his hair. He was barefoot and his head was bowed, almost completely hidden by his arms. But that wasn't what made Joyce stop in her tracks. It was the wild array of bruises littering Steve's chest and curling around his ribs towards his back in vicious lines of blue and purple, standing out harshly against his pale skin.

"Steve?" Dustin asked, his voice cracking with shock.

Steve lifted his head and an expression of pure terror crossed his face. "No, you can't be here! You need to leave! Please!"

The dark bruise around his eye stood in stark contrast to the pallor of the rest of his face. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink since the mall. _Nightmares_, Joyce thought. Her eyes fell on the empty bottle of pills._ And pain._

She took a tentative step closer. "It's all right, Steve. We're here to help."

"No!" Steve shook his head vehemently. "No, you need to leave! They'll come, I know they will, and they'll find you and hurt you and – "

"No one will hurt us, Steve," Dustin said, voice gentle and quiet and more grown up than any child should sound. "It's over. I promise you, it's over."

Steve laughed harshly, a terrible sound. "It's never over. Don't you see? I told them my name, where I live – where _you_ live! They know where I work. Scoops Ahoy. I told them. Again and again. Scoops Ahoy. Scoops Ahoy. They know. They will come. The_ doctor_ will come."

He shuddered violently and Joyce realized why he hadn't gone to the hospital. Something had happened to him down there, something to do with a doctor and possibly the drugs he'd been forcibly injected with, and now he was _scared_. He was scared and terrified and he'd been alone for three days.

_Oh god_, she thought.

Slowly so as not to startle him Joyce crouched down in front of Steve. "Steve," she said gently, "We're here to take you somewhere safe. All right?"

He hid his head in his arms again. "Nowhere is safe."

"My home is safe," Joyce insisted. "You know it is. The … the Russians don't know about it. I promise."

Steve hugged his knees more tightly and shook his head again. "Can't put you in danger. Can't let them hurt you. Not you. Not the kids. Won't talk again. I promise. Please, I promise. I work at Scoops Ahoy. I know nothing. I only make ice cream. I promise, it's Scoops Ahoy. Won't say anything else. Won't give up my friends. Never again. Have to keep them safe."

Joyce glanced at Dustin, not understanding why Steve kept talking about his former workplace. She frowned. Dustin looked stricken and his eyes steadily filled with tears even as he put on a brave smile. "Steve, buddy?" he asked. "It's okay. It's okay that you talked. I'm not mad anymore, I promise. This is Hawkins. Everyone knows everyone anyway. You didn't do anything wrong. Please, just … let us help you. Mrs. Byers' house is safe. Eleven's there and … remember how she took out those Russians at the mall? She'll kick their asses again if they dare come back."

"El?" Steve asked, looking up in confusion. There was a feverish gleam in his eyes. "Is she all right? Her leg …"

"She's getting better," Joyce reassured him. "And so will you once we get you home. You can see her then."

Steve's breathing hitched. "I don't have a home."

Joyce's heart broke. Every instinct told her to pull him into her arms, so that's what she did. She surged forward and gathered him close. Instead of struggling like she expected him to Steve gripped her shirt with all the strength he had. His face felt feverishly hot against her neck.

"Of course you have a home," Joyce whispered fiercely. "You could have stayed with us for as long as you wanted. Forever, if you'd like. I'm so sorry I didn't make that clearer."

She felt Steve take a deep, shaky breath. "I … I miss …" he began and faltered. Joyce waited patiently, all the while gently rubbing his back. "_… this_," he finally said in a broken, helpless voice.

"Then _come home_," Joyce urged him, fighting against tears of her own. "Please, Steve. I promise it's safe." But that wasn't enough. It hadn't been the last time, after all. Steve needed more than a safe place. He needed to believe he was welcome there – a part of them. "You're family, Steve," Joyce added in a whisper. "I mean it. You belong with us. You always have."

For a moment time seemed to freeze. Steve became rigid in her arms and she heard Dustin holding his breath. Fearing she'd said too much, or maybe not enough, Joyce prepared for the worst. But then Steve shuddered and let out a choked sob that went straight to her heart, clutching at her back with a desperation that only made her hold him tighter. She could only imagine how much her words must mean to him after days of being alone with only the ghosts and monsters in his head, fearing for his life and those of everyone he loved.

"Shh," she hushed him gently. "It's all going to be all right, Steve. You're safe and you're not alone. I promise." Looking at Dustin, she asked quietly "Could you pack his clothes?"

Dustin nodded. Eager to help, he sprang up. It didn't take him long to find a bag and pack up what little Steve owned. When he was done Joyce finally pulled back and looked at Steve's injured face. She took in the damp trails the tear left, the clamminess the fever was causing and the painful-looking wounds.

"Come on," she said, keeping her voice gentle as she carefully brushed his hair back and felt his temperature. "Time to go home."

It took both her and Dustin to get Steve up from the floor. His legs were shaky and he swayed dangerously in the harsh glow of the light bulb. His ribs cast horrible shadows all over his chest, darkening the bruises even more. Joyce didn't have to ask if Steve had been eating these last few days. It was obvious he hadn't. Good thing she was great at making soup.

She grabbed a comfortable looking sweatshirt and slowly helped Steve into it while Dustin got Steve's shoes. By some miracle they managed to get Steve down the stairs and into the car without accident. The short walk seemed to have taken what little strength Steve had left out of him because he fell asleep almost as soon as Joyce started the engine, bundled up in the backseat with Dustin close by. Joyce's eyes met Dustin's in the rearview mirror. "You okay?"

Despite being obviously shaken Dustin nodded. "Will he be all right?"

"I hope so," Joyce said truthfully, briefly glancing at Steve before turning her attention back to the road. "We'll do everything we can to make sure he gets better. Both physically and mentally," she added. "It's gonna take some time, though."

_A lot_, she mentally added. But that was a concern for another day. All that mattered now was that Steve was with them, safe and sound and surrounded by people he loved. The rest would come with time, patience and care. And love – something that had been lacking in Steve's life for far too long. Joyce was determined to change that. She knew she could never replace his parents or undo the damage they had done, but she could be there for Steve when he needed reassurance, advice or someone to listen. She could make sure he ate properly, and wake him when the nightmares got too bad. And she could do her best to make him feel loved and cherished – a part of her family instead of an intruder.

In the rearview mirror, she watched Dustin bunch up his jacket and place it under Steve's head so he didn't bump against the window all the time. The gesture was so kind and gentle Joyce felt herself smile. Steve was lucky to have Dustin as a friend.

She turned the corner before hitting the gas pedal, not caring about the speed limit. They had no time to lose. Steve needed a bed, a warm blanket and something to help bring his fever down. The last thing she wanted was to have to take him to the hospital. She could only imagine his reaction to seeing a doctor.

_No_, she thought. She would get her boy home and she would keep him safe just like she should have in the first place. Steve would get better and she'd be damned if she ever let him go again.


End file.
